7
for George Costanza and Monica Gueller
Like a set of coordinates, the fractal
browns stained on a barn plank
where a nail has bled down. Your rust
around the eyes where rainwater
turns one thing into another,
a you word I think I came close
to saying, but more like
the coming close of holy men
who try to pronounce the name
of God but miss the sounds
between the consonants, between
the continents, the oceans' ochre
locked up with their beating us
into understanding, out of our land.
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